“I grow plants for many reasons: to please my eye or to please my soul, to challenge the elements or to challenge my patience, for novelty or for nostalgia, but mostly for the joy in seeing them grow.” – David Hobson
Azalea+, Allium, Iris, Clematis, Hosta, Fern and the assorted statuary…
+The orange azalea is my favorite, the Gibraltar Azalea.
Working in my yard fuels my soul. It always has – whether in Rydal or in the Pocono mountains. This is especially true today during the time of Covid-19. There is much uncertainty and far too many distractions and things that we simply cannot control. Time in my garden is my “go to” safe space. It gives me hope, gives me purpose and provides a sense of connection to something bigger than myself.
Early Spring is not only a time of renewal. In the yard, it is the time to discover things that have been forgotten or tucked away as we prepared for the Winter months. I never really think of gardening as decoration, but as part of an evolving process – a work that is never fully completed, but always transitioning. My garden esthetic is courtesy of my dear friend Vincent LaBella. He believed that the ideal garden “always has something in bloom…something to look forward to…a collection of instruments that are beautiful alone, but collectively make the sweetest sound one has ever seen.”
In my yard this evolution comes to life in late March/early April with a row of eight Redbuds (Pictured) – clusters of tiny magenta buds that swell into showy rosy pink flowers before the leaves appear, with the blossoms putting on a show for two to three weeks. Tulips (Pictured) – classic shapes and colors, that when planted in groupings and complimentary colors provide a spectacular display of light and harmony. NOTE: I mix early and late Spring bulbs to “extend the show.” Lenten Rose is not really a rose – it gets its name because it blooms around Lent and the flower is shaped somewhat like a rose. I await the arrival or more “smiling faces” – Viburnum, Hosta, Fern, Astilbe, Hydrangea, Azalea, Peonies, Day Lilly and a host of other perennials.
*”I need my friends. I need my house. I need my garden.” is a quote by English actress Miranda Richardson. I do not know the context that she was speaking of, but it perfectly sums up how I feel. Whether through cards, notes, phone calls or Face Time; I find myself heavily relying on (and needing) a connection to the individuals who matter most to me in life. We laugh, cry, joke and sustain meaningful interactions that are as necessary as the air we breathe and the food that sustains us. My house is my refuge. A place of security, calm and as Joan Armatrading sang, “...a shelter from the storm.” Research shows that gardening can reduce the risk of stroke, burn calories, decreases the likelihood of osteoporosis and can also reduce the risk of heart disease. For me it is a stress reduction – it lowers cortisol – the stress hormone – and gives me a connection to the land. It is the Anti-News Media. By “working the dirt,” I have the opportunity to focus on beauty and this inspires me to experience feelings of awe, gratitude, and abundance.
I didn’t know Charles Roberts, my paternal father.
My mother divorced him when I was a toddler.
Upon reflection and an examination of the facts, as I recall them, my father did very little to foster a relationship with me.
In fact, my father’s most important relationship was with alcohol…and, ultimately, it is the thing that took his life. He drank himself to death.
Much of the credit for the man I have become is due to my mother.
A single Black female, full of grit and moxie, determined to make a good life for herself and her son. She is part of a legacy of strong Black women who wore multiple hats, made sacrifices and like a momma bear, nurtured and protected her cub.
Credit is also due to a man named James Burks.
My mother didn’t have a lot of boyfriends.
There were, of course, men that she dated, but “Mr. Burks+” was somehow a consistent presence in our lives.
He was the only constant adult male in my life while I was growing up.
As far back as I can remember, he always treated me with love, respect and dignity. He treated me as if I were his own flesh and blood.
I questioned him about that recently and he replied,
“What was I supposed to do? I was dating your mother and had no choice but to love you and fill the void that was there. You needed me.”
Over time, to the outside world, including family and friends, Jim Burks was my father. To me he was Dad.
He taught me how to properly care for myself – things, I assume that men teach their sons – how to shave, how to groom and. most importantly, how to best navigate through life as a Black man. Who better equipped to teach a young Black man these lessons than another Black man?
There are countless snapshots and memories from the past that solidify his presence and importance in my life.
An appreciation of the arts, mostly music: introductions to James Baldwin, Billy Strayhorn, Coltrane, Billie Holiday, Puccini, the simplicity and vibrancy of a Harold Wheeler string arrangement. He was passionate about history and antiques and he shared his passions with me. Like a sponge, I absorbed them all.
Education: He hired a tutor for me when I needed to improve my grasp of arithmetic.
When my boarding school tuition was due and my mother was short, Jim made up the difference and added a sweetener on top.
In my early teenage years when my maternal grandfather’s body was riddled with cancer and he was dying, it was Jim Burks who showed up at school to take me to Boston in order to say goodbye. He didn’t tell me “how to” mourn, but through his actions, he taught me that it is okay for a man to be vulnerable, to cry and express empathy.
My mother and Jim came to visit me in the eighties. I was in my twenties, living in New York – in an apartment that I could not afford, in a relationship that was toxic and detrimental to my well-being, and visibly thin and in trouble.
Disgusted and disappointed by what he saw, Jim called me later and told me to pack up my things. He was coming to take me home. On the appointed day with no more than a hello, we loaded his car with my belongings and he brought me home. The two-hour car ride was filled with silence.
All that was needed to be said remained unspoken. He rescued me. He saved my life. He saved me. He showed up when i needed him most.
Eight months ago, I got a telephone call from my dad’s doctor…He was concerned that he had missed two appointments.
“These are radiation treatments for the skin cancer, Eric. It is important that Dad not miss these appointments. They are scheduled every weekday for the next two weeks, and you have to make sure he gets there.”
Skin cancer? Radiation? This was new information to me.
When questioned, my dad made light of the situation and referred to the treatments as “this thing.” He saw it as no big deal and, at 95 years of age, I assumed that, given all that he had been through in his life, it was no big deal. So, for two weeks we would go to the oncology treatment center at the hospital. Outwardly he appeared fine and without any visible side effects.
Three weeks later, everything changed and the world turned upside down.
+As a child, I was instructed to refer to any adults as “Mr” or “Miss.” My mother believed that it was not only a sign of respect, but, in her mind, a differentiator, that separated her child from others. So for close to twenty years, I referred to my dad as “Mr. Burks.”
Imprisonment and gun violence are the threats to the lives of Black men that are most commonly discussed and reported…for valid reason.
Approximately 12–13% of the American population is African-American. African-Americans make up 60% of the 2.1 million male inmates in jail or prison
According to a study from the Pew Research Center for People and the Press, a young Black man is nearly five times more likely to be killed by a gun than a young White man. If a Black person is killed by a gun, it is judged a homicide 82 percent of the time. For the broad population, most gun deaths are ruled accidental or the result of suicide; only 34 percent of gun deaths are attributed to murder.
There is another threat. Click here to learn more.
HIV is a pervasive threat that continues to spread rapidly. Chief among the challenges that contribute to its spread are poverty, lack of access to health care, higher incidence of sexually transmitted infections, lack of awareness and stigma.
Unfortunately, HIV awareness and how people of color are disproportionately affected are not reported enough. We are midst of a health crisis. Education and information about the HIV epidemic is essential.
I am continually fascinated by consumer behavior. And just when I think I have it pretty much figured out, a new finding shows that there is so much to learn.
“When gas prices fall, Americans reliably do two things that don’t make much sense. They spend more of the windfall on gasoline than they would if the money came from somewhere else. And they don’t just buy more gasoline. They switch from regular gas to high-octane.”
Click When Gas Becomes Cheaper, Americans Buy More Expensive Gas to read the full article.